


I’ve Got You In The End (I Wish I Had You From The Start)

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush (TV)
Genre: James basically had the girl from terminator break up with him, M/M, This Is Not An AU, blind dates, kendall is famous, matchmaker, they definitely have angst, they might have angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: Kendall is young, hot, rich, and single in Hollywood. And he's fine with that. Mostly.He's so fine with that, that he signs up for a matchmaking service.It doesn't turn out the way he expects.
Relationships: James Diamond/Kendall Knight, past James/Lucy, past James/OC, past Kendall/Jo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't know. I apparently decided that I was sad Jacaranda was over and said, you know what will make me feel better? Another multi-chapter fic! BUUUUT, this should only be four chapters. Please, please, brain, don't write over four chapters.

**Kendall**

* * *

Kendall’s kicked back in Polaris class on a transatlantic flight from London, wrapping up the last leg of his world tour, when he notices it. He jolts up out of his seat, nearly knocking over his complimentary whiskey sour, and plucks the offending magazine from its roomy plastic slot.

The cover features Grace Hartley, up and coming star of the rebooted Born to Die franchise.

Kendall doesn’t have a ton of time for movies, these days, but he knows she plays a time agent who travels back to the past to save her current girlfriend’s life from killer robots. So far, the first film has met with critical acclaim. Pretty high praise for an action film. More than the original run ever garnered.

But that’s not what catches Kendall’s eye – it’s the subheading, written in bold, blue font.

_Grace Hartley: On Success, Sex, her Explosive Breakup, and her Shih Tzu_

Kendall flips to the interview, skipping past the bits about Grace’s career path, preferred position, and dog, Waffles.

There, on the third page in. There it is.

_It was then that I broached the most delicate of subjects. I asked Grace, ‘Can you tell me a bit about James?’_

_James Diamond, of course, is the host of Science TV’s popular Ghoul Gamut, where teams compete to find evidence of the supernatural, phantasmal, and just plain weird. He and Grace recently ended a tumultuous-_

Kendall snorts.

_-year long relationship, which culminated in a full-on brawl at Hollywood hotspot, the Scritch Scratch Club._

_At my prying, Grace lowers those long, blonde lashes and admits, ‘It’s been hard. When someone is so much a part of your life, and then becomes a stranger…’_

_‘Who initiated the breakup?’ I prod. ‘The stories from that night are…jumbled.’_

_Grace laughs, and wipes a glistening tear from her cheek. ‘It was mutual.’_

Oh, of all the bullshit lies. Kendall frowns at the magazine, a silent film from that night, one month ago, playing in his head:

James showing up on his doorstep after months of radio static.

James, near hysterical, because Grace dumped his sorry ass, raiding Kendall’s liquor cabinet for its meager offerings.

James’s eyes ablaze, when he said–

Kendall shakes his head. It doesn’t matter what James said. Kendall hasn’t heard from him since.

And it worked out for him, the whole broken heart thing. Now, the breakup is international news, and no publicity is bad publicity, right? Word is, James has a new, big time sponsorship deal in the works.

Sighing, Kendall flips further into the magazine. He skims an article on whales, and frowns his way through another on global warming. He’s perusing the ads at the back when he finds one that gives him pause.

_Looking for love?_ It inquires, in sharp black lettering.

Below the question is a pretty brunette with nice eyes, her cheek resting against one immaculately manicured hand.

_Violet West, matchmaker to the stars!_ The sub-banner proclaims.

Kendall glances around, shame creeping up his spine, but no one is watching him. A divider sections him off from the nearest passenger, who is wearing an eye mask and snorting softly, anyway.

Kendall hesitates, listening to the low rumble of the plane’s engine, and then jots the matchmaker’s number and URL down in his phone.

If the incident with Grace and James taught him anything, it’s that love in Hollywood isn’t easy to find – he’ll seize any opportunity he can.

* * *

Kendall’s first solo album sold well, but not well enough to predict the wild success of his second. He never expected to sell out stadiums in Shanghai or Sydney, and he still feels a certain degree of imposter syndrome doing so without his buds.

But he likes music, and his fans, and he likes his production team, led by Kelly. She booted up Wainwright Records once she bullied Gustavo into buying a vacation home in Panama – one he now refuses to leave. She’s incredibly competent about everything, and gives Kendall the indulgent kind of creative control few other labels would allow.

She calls, after he touches down at LAX, to congratulate him on finishing his tour, ask if he’s going to Carlos’s baby shower next week, and remind him that he’s got studio time scheduled for Friday. The last sounds more like a gentle scold.

“Thanks, yes, and okaaaay,” Kendall replies, juggling his luggage and his phone, upon which he’s filling out his love application for Violet West’s matchmaking service. He’s halfway done with the section on his interests, and Kelly’s really breaking his concentration, here.

“We’ve got momentum. We need to use it,” Kelly tells him, with muted urgency.

“You’re not wrong.” Kendall yawns on purpose. “But a break would be nice.”

He can actually hear Kelly roll her eyes. But all she says is, “Enjoy your days off.”

“10-4,” Kendall replies absently. He ends the call and resumes his questionnaire.

_What kind of person are you looking for?_

If only he knew.

Kendall’s dating record is…spotty, since Jo. They had a good second go of it, a real admirable effort.

An admirable effort that crashed and burned once Jo scored her next film deal.

It wasn’t her fault. They could have done long distance – they’d matured to the point where it no longer seemed like an unrealistic goal. And Kendall knew that acting was her dream; that sometimes it would take her across the globe.

But Kendall was going through a lot, at the time.

The band was in the middle of breaking up. His whole world was changing. Then his girlfriend says she’s shipping off the Kazakhstan for six months.

He handled it badly. He knows that now.

Hell, he knew it then. He just couldn’t stop himself.

Jo exited, stage right, a little fed up and a lot hurt. Kendall tried to make it better, but his heart wasn’t in it. Their era was over.

Making a bad decision worse, he rebounded with a groupie, some starry-eyed girl with a fetish for boy bands. Kendall didn’t date her so much as booty call her, repeatedly, until he realized they were in something dangerously close to a relationship.

And, what’s worse; he was more invested than she was. He could see it, the way he was losing his ability to charm her. The way she was drifting off to the next big thing.

So he moved on. Began working with Kelly. Started seeing another singer at a competing label. She was sweet-faced, smoky-voiced, and a little too scene for him. She liked designer drugs, and Kendall…didn’t.

It didn’t last.

Then there was the barista he met after his first tour. She went to USC, was smart as a whip and incredibly granola. She convinced him to go vegan, and quit sugar, for _months_. He ended that when he figured out that he was the only legal adult he knew who wasn’t allowed to have a goddamned beer.

By the time she left an eggplant-sized hole in his heart, he was about to drop the album that would change his career.

There have been other people, dotted through his sporadic singledom. But Kendall doesn’t like to think about that, about meaningless sex, and the guilt-spiral it leads him on. He wants more than that – he wants the fairy tale.

It’s dumb, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

So he finishes the survey and hits send. Easy peasy.

* * *

Three weeks later finds Kendall hanging out in the waiting room of Logan’s clinic, petting literally every single animal that comes in.

Technically, the vet shop belongs to a Dr. Wendy Applebaum – it’s got her name on the sign – but Kendall has been denied the pleasure of Dr. Applebaum’s acquaintance ever since Logan started working here two years back.

And Kendall likes coming here. He likes scratching the butts of over overenthusiastic corgis, curious huskies, and very dismissive cats. He likes talking to kids about their pet turtles, or cuddling teacup pigs. He even likes Cady, the teenage secretary – Dr. Applebaum’s niece – who dresses exclusively in black and frequently refers to Kendall as a poser and a sellout.

This afternoon, Logan finds Kendall with an armful of wriggling weimaraner puppy, the dog’s star struck mom staring gape-mouthed at him. Logan shakes his head.

“I hate it when you visit.”

“Untrue,” Kendall counters, handing the puppy off to her owner. “And hurtful.”

“I think you’ll survive.” Logan rolls his eyes. “D’you wanna get lunch, or are you note done harassing my patients?”

Kendall thinks about it. “I could eat.”

Logan nods and shrugs out of his doctor-y jacket, pristine white stained with muddy paw prints. Underneath, he’s wearing maroon scrubs, with a rip near the hem the approximate size and shape of kitty claws.

It’s still jarring, seeing Logan like this, years after the fact. He never had a particular affinity for animals, growing up. But he tried the med school route, and a pediatric residency, and it turned out not to be the dream job he’d envisioned.

_Humans stress me out. Kids cry when they see a scalpel, did you know that?_ Logan had shuddered in the midst of his frantic explanation of why he was heading back to school. _Too much pressure!_

Kendall remembers Logan’s confession, made while Logan was curled into the threadbare brown couch in his apartment – he had money for something better, but was too lazy to care – with James’s arm slung around his shoulders.

The low rumble of James’s laughter against Kendall’s ear echoes in his chest now. He can still smell the spicy scent of James’s cologne surrounding him.

They were all closer back then.

Logan lets him reminisce in quiet until they get to the restaurant, a place known for its beer battered avocado tacos. Before they even order, he states, “You’re mad at me.”

“No!”

“I missed Carlos’s baby shower, and you’re here to yell at me about it.” Logan delivers the proclamation with good natured wariness.

“I am not!” Kendall protests. “Can’t a dude just want to visit his oldest friend in LA?”

“James is your oldest friend in LA,” Logan retorts, which is, okay, factually accurate, but…

“James doesn’t want to see me.”

“Lies.”

“Truth.” Kendall lifts one shoulder and tries his best to appear like it doesn’t bug him. “And Carlos was bummed you missed his party, but he got that you had to work.”

“He’s not even pregnant! Alexa is. And she’s in Russia! Having a shower for the dad is stupid.”

“You know Carlos. Any excuse to party.”

“Does he hate me now?”

“It’s _Carlos_. He could never.”

Logan’s posture relaxes. “So, when are you and James going to work out your shit?”

Kendall scowls. “Can we just order, please?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Logan replies, but Kendall ignores him and flags down a glass of water.

* * *

He gets a call from Violet West herself on a slow Monday afternoon at the rink.

He needed to clear his head, and sometimes the ice is the only thing that keeps him sane.

When the phone rings, he’s just about wrapped up, leaning back against the boards, trying to catch his breath. He doesn’t feel the soft vibration of his cell until it rings a second time, and then he hast to dig it out of his pockets with fumbling grace. “Hello?”

“Hi!” A bright voice chirps. “Is this Kendall Knight?”

“Speaking,” Kendall answers evenly. Not that many people have his number, and there’s always a risk that a fan, or worse, has somehow gotten a hold of it.

“Great!” The peppy woman on the other end of the line drags the word out like Tony the Tiger. _Grrrrreat_! “This is Violet West, from the matchmaking agency? I had a couple of follow-up questions about your application. One, actually.”

“Oh, uh. Sure.”

Kendall slumps back into the rink, trying to remember what he even wrote on the damn thing.

“First off, let me tell you how delighted I am that you chose my agency. We’re just tickled to have you, and I think you’ll find that our clientele is of a similarly high caliber.”

Kendall shifts. He’s been famous in some capacity since he was sixteen, but it still weirds him out when people act like he farts rainbows. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“Isn’t it? No matter what kind of match you’re looking for, we can help! So, question – who are you looking for?”

“Er – I don’t know. Isn’t that kind of the point?”

“No, silly! I mean, you didn’t mark a particular gender or sex in your application form.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

Suddenly, everything Kendall’s day at the rink was meant to help him forget comes flooding back.

Logan, insisting Kendall talk to James. Digging up old memories.

Like James, rain soaked and sad about Grace.

James, breathing hot against his ear.

And…

And.

Kendall takes a deep breath. “Both.”

“Both?” Violet questions, surprised. She’s got to be – this isn’t public knowledge.

“Yes. Both. Any. All.”

“Alright, then. I’ll put you down for women and men.”

“Anyone,” Kendall corrects, the gold-brown of James’s eyes searing through his mind with wildfire intensity.

“Anyone,” Violet confirms, with the lack of judgment that comes from being paid an obscene amount of money for services rendered.

Still, the neutrality is calming.

She’s only the third person Kendall’s ever come out to, and she has no idea.

* * *

A few things happen in quick succession.

* * *

First, Kendall wakes up to a text from Katie.

“ _Call James_ ,” he reads out loud. Grumpily, he narrates as he punches back, “No. You’re not my supervisor.”

He can’t deal with this bullshit before his morning coffee.

But Katie’s not great at backing down. It’s a family trait.

She sends a screenshot of a super market tabloid in return, the cover a grainy pic of Grace with her arms around some hunky actor’s shoulders.

“Fuck,” Kendall mutters.

But he doesn’t call James.

* * *

And he’s got an excuse, okay?

He’s busybusybusy, working out lyrics and hooks, letting Kelly formulate his third album’s sound with a whole host of crew. He’s surrounded by people day in, day out – he doesn’t have the time or the privacy to call James, or think about James, or stew over what went wrong with James.

Kendall is certain, if he repeats it often enough, he’ll convince himself of the fact.

He really is time-crunched, though. He has so little bandwidth that he misses Violet the first four times she calls with the _most delicious matches_.

Which is fine, he’s chained to the studio, and Kelly, for the foreseeable future. He’d call her his work wife, but she’s more like his babysitter, bullying assistants into fetching him pink smoothies and cartons of ice cream, and letting him listen to his favorite podcasts over break, as a treat.

She’s patient and he’s exhausted, but he settles into the routine of writing and singing, punctuated with working lunches and late night energy drinks. This is his seventh album, including the first four with BTR, and Kendall has grown used to the brief ebbs and frenetic flows of music-making.

He manages to convince himself it’s better than what amounts to a blind date.

Except.

Except…Kendall’s lonely.

Logan’s on a work trip to like, Uzbekistan? Somewhere with camels, maybe. Kendall’s never been great with geography. And Carlos has a new baby on the way, and lives in the Bay Area besides.

There isn’t anyone else he can call, and it would be pathetic, if Kendall wasn’t used to this.

He’s never had many other friends, is the thing.

There’s Mercedes, but she’s basically unreachable – training to be a corporate giant doesn’t exactly free her up for movie dates. Camille is living in France, filming the Hackers reboot with Dak Zevon, and she’d probably tell him to _call James_ anyway. Lucy fell out of touch with the entire band after she and James imploded, which Kendall regrets, but not enough to do more than text her a quick _congrats_ when her singles top the charts or she wins an award.

He could call Jett Stetson, but he’s not a masochist.

Once he runs through that list, he’s out of options.

He has a thousand acquaintances, but none of them have bothered to learn his heart. That’s what happens, Kendall thinks, when you grow up. The sad fact of adulthood is that childhood friends live their separate lives, and it’s hard to meet new people.

Especially when you travel with a bodyguard.

And honestly…he never needed other friends. He never needed anyone other than Carlos, and Logan. And. Well. That brings him back to the one person he really wants to talk to.

_James_.

James, who is little more than a face on TV.

One that Kendall’s spent the last week missing via catching up on his backlog of Ghoul Gamut on the DVR, but won’t – can’t – bring himself to call.

* * *

He gets a message from Violet on his way out the studio.

Stalled out in the turquoise halls – Kelly painted over Rocque Records’ old, familiar red. She says this is more tranquil – Kendall reads:

_8pm. The Laundromat. He’s yummy!_

_Yummy_? Christ. He winces, rubbing his eyes tiredly. The spa-like walls brace his shoulders when he sags back against them.

Is he ready for yummy? It’s been years since he’s even dated.

But there’s only one way to find out, right?

Right?

_I’ll be there_ , Kendall writes back.

She sends a string of uninterpretable emoji in reply, but Kendall gets the gist of it. He’s locked in.

Kendall’s very first blind date is a go.

* * *

He walks into the restaurant in a pair of pressed slacks and a patterned button down that Kelly “gifted” him a few months back because “he needed to stop dressing like a lumberjack in interviews”. To this day, Kendall hasn’t once worn it for an interview, just to be obnoxious. But it seemed the right thing, for a date.

Hopefully?

He’s decided he needs to put his best foot forward. He needs to exude positivity. He needs to do his best impression of a superstar.

Which is hard.

Kendall’s hands are sweating. He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous.

The Laundromat is a small beach house in Venice, stylized like a Creole cottage in turquoise and orange. The hostess who greets him is wearing a suit, and starched shirt, all in black. Her dark hair is up in a sleek bun, and she has an ear piece that she speaks into when Kendall tells her his reservation is under Violet West’s name.

He hates coming to places like this, with three Michelin stars, an intimidating clientele, and a price tag that matches a used car. He feels like an imposter. He’s worried people might stare.

And they do, but not because anyone thinks Kendall is a fake. He’s Kendall Knight. He’s got as much of a right to be here as any of these rich socialites.

The hostess flashes him a smile full of pearly veneers and guides him through the busy dining room to a sectioned curtained off with deep velvet drapes. Kendall braces himself as she pulls open the silken rope that keeps the drapes closed.

Positivity.

Superstar-grin.

The table that is slowly revealed is crafted from solid mahogany. The carefully folded napkins on the table match the exterior of the restaurant. The silverware is beaten copper.

And the person sitting there, twirling a single white rose between his palms, is so familiar it hurts.

“James.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James gets around, is the thing. He’s not ashamed of it – he’s an attractive guy, with a great personality, and why shouldn’t he let as many people touch his abs as he can manage? It is an actual honor, for him and for them.

**James**

* * *

One of the camera grips has their kid on the lot for an impromptu celebration. The child, a precocious, gap-toothed thing with big, ruddy cheeks and freckles spanning the bridge of their nose is running across the set with a handful of Mylar balloons that say things like _it’s your day_! And _Happy Birthday_!

He’s telling everyone who will listen that it is, in fact, his birthday. James has congratulated him at least three times, the last through gritted teeth.

He loves kids, he’s just…over today, honestly.

Hosting Ghoul Gamut seemed like a choice job, at the beginning. TV hosts are known for becoming iconic – just look at Unsolved Mysteries. But like, James underestimated what hosting a show like the Gamut would entail.

There are people, and they actively believe in ghosts. And the Loch Ness Monster. And Bigfoot. And like, the Mothman. Which is all fine, James believes in all of these things too.

That’s the part that’s not fine. This job gives him nightmares.

Also, some of the contestants aren’t what he’d call credible witnesses. It feels a little sillier to believe in the vampires when Bill the Mountain Man and his wife and kids in homespun dresses are raving about it in front of a green screen, later edited to show a castle in Transylvania. James’s faith in the unknown is both confirmed and tested on a daily basis.

Today, they’re doing a piece on the Dark Watchers of California, who haunt the Santa Lucia Mountains, and are notoriously known for standing there and, uh. James checks his notes and mouths silently, _staring_.

So that’s their thing. They stand and stare.

The two teams they have competing to find evidence of the Watchers are up the coastline today, but James is filming his segment at the lot. Normally, he loves a good trip up the PCH, but his particular brand of heartbreak requires a lot of easily accessible takeout and a strong Wi-Fi signal, neither of which Big Sur is known for.

Thinking about that reminds him of Grace, which is a path his mind does not want to trek down.

He refocuses on the party happening around him, the fifth birthday bash full of color and light and easy distractions. Five is a good age.

Five is the age he met Kendall, actually.

He allows himself the briefest of moments to reminisce, the memory old and fond and filtered through multiple recounting, rosy-colored with age.

But he won’t dwell on that either, because Kendall is on his shit-list.

James refuses to think about why.

“James. Hey, man.” Dark fingers snap in front of his face, and once again, James is forced back to reality. “We’re gonna try another take.”

“Oh, sure.”

Hendricks, the director, is who the fingers belong to. He’s a youngish man in his thirties with a lot of vision.

He’s also insanely hot, and James can’t help watching his ass when he saunters away.

It hasn’t been long, since Grace. But James hasn’t spent more than a week single since his break with Lucy Stone a few years back. The last two months have felt like _an eternity_.

Maybe it’s time to get back in the saddle.

He considers Hendricks’ ass and decides to start looking tonight.

For now, he slips in front of the camera and picks up his vintage mic, tarnished black and cool to the touch.

“Evening slips over the horizon, Ghouls and Boys, but you know what that means. It’s time for a new edition of-“ here, he clears his throat with great gravity. In a low, gravelly voice, he finishes, wicked, “ _Ghoul Gamut_.”

* * *

Home, in the slick, modern design of his apartment, James crashes on his tasteful, blue, mid-century modern couch and begins flicking through Tinder.

He’s got standards, but he’s also got a fridge full of light beer, a raging libido, and a problem with patience. He likes the idea of taking someone home with no questions asked.

Maybe someone who knows what the James Diamond brand means. Someone who will worship at his feet.

And other places.

Though, pickings are unfortunately slim. James keeps trying, opening a few other dating apps in the process. He makes his way through Bumble, OK Cupid, and a few of the fancier, hoity-toity apps that low level celebrities and socialites like to browse through. Nothing works. Eventually, he realizes he’s going to have to go old school.

Sighing, James searches for the V’s in his phone’s directory.

Violet answers after three rings. Her voice is husky with cabernet, but upbeat. Violet is _always_ upbeat.

“Jamie! Long time, no talk.”

“Hi, Vi.”

“Is this a social call, or is it business?” Her voice ticks up at the end, clearly intimating that she hopes it is business.

Which, fine. That stings, a little, but it’s not entirely unexpected.

James met Violet at a party. He was introduced by her sister Olive, an adorable redhead who worked at James’s modeling agency – back when he thought modeling was a viable career option.

He and Olive had a brief fling.

And then he and Violet had a briefer one.

James gets around, is the thing. He’s not ashamed of it – he’s an attractive guy, with a great personality, and why shouldn’t he let as many people touch his abs as he can manage? It is an actual honor, for him and for them.

But Violet didn’t seem to think so. She ended their relationship about two weeks after it started – something about James being “selfish” and “narcissistic”. They haven’t spoken since.

James admits, “It might be business.”

Truthfully, he’s never tried the whole Hollywood matchmaker scene before, but rumor has it that Violet is very, very good at her job. He knows at least three married couples who met through her agency.

Not that James is ready to be married. But he wouldn’t mind something verging on serious. It was nice, being with Grace. Having someone to cuddle with at night, or to curl up and watch terrible TV with. To try out his cooking experiments on. To share his successes and failures with.

James wouldn’t mind having that again.

“Delightful!” Violet responds, all pep. “I’ll send you an application.”

“An application? Seriously? Can’t you just fill it out for me?”

“Sweetheart, that would require a deeper insight into your psyche than I possess.” She pauses, presumably to take a sip of wine. “That dust up with Grace really hit you hard, hmm?”

James blinks, that night resurfacing for him in technicolor.

The neon lights of the Scritch Scratch Club, in combination with recent rain, had turned the asphalt into a glassy mess of watercolors, pink and green and blue. Grace – beautiful, blonde, toned – was glaring at him with those icy blue eyes of hers, like she could see straight through James. All his secrets were laid bare.

There was yelling. James’s voice felt like he’d scraped it raw with razorblades. Nothing he said or did could make it better. Her accusations hit him like fists.

And then…

Then he went to Kendall’s.

He can’t let it go further than that.

He tells Violet, “I’m doing okay.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ll get you that application, sugar. You hang tight.”

It’s not like he has anything better to do.

* * *

Violet’s application reads more like a pop quiz on who James Diamond _really is_ , but he enjoys talking about himself, so it’s easy enough. He likes to think of himself as an open magazine – all about hair gel, fame, every perfect angle of his own face.

Open magazine he might be, but James still experiences the briefest of stumbles when he comes across the section regarding his ideal mate – particularly the little boxes marked with _men_ , _women_ , _non-binary_ , and one that looms larger than the rest, simply reading: _no preference_. He thinks about Hendricks’s ass.

He thinks about Kendall.

James deliberately skips back up to the blank box for _women_ and makes a neat tick beside it.

There. Easy peasy. He clicks _submit_ and puts the whole thing out of his head.

* * *

The next episode of Ghoul Gamut is centered on River Dinos, which are exactly what they sound like as far as James can tell. There’ve been sightings from Nevada to Colorado, so the teams are travelling west to east, following old wives’ tales.

James remains on travel-strike, but the studio lot is quieter than before. No kids shrieking. No off-key singing.

Hendricks sets him up in a faux forest, created for the New Town High spin-off, Old Town U. It’s about the main characters’ daughter, a teen detectives starting her first year in college.

The woman who plays her is actually 27 – James might’ve seen her once or twice, in a recreational, clothing-optional setting. Girl’s sweet, but a freakish hybrid of Jett Stetson and Jo Taylor. So much so that James had to break whatever they had off, at the risk of feeling like he was violating his best friend’s most sacred ex.

He knows that’s how Kendall sees Jo. As sacred.

In his eyes, she’s a saint. This one, untouchable, pure girl who used to deign to love him, until he fucked it up. Like she’s not the one who missed out.

James will never understand it.

Anyway, Old Town U is on a filming break, and the trees are the closest clutch of pines that Hendricks’s people can be bothered to find. So James is standing huddled among them, holding his mic close to his chest.

With a wicked grin, he intones, “Can our fearless adventurers find these prehistoric cryptids? Or are they just chasing legends? Find out this week on _Ghoul Gamut_.”

“And, cut!” Hendricks calls. “James, my man. Nice growl there on the title.”

“I’m trying something new,” James demurs.

“It works. Positively evil.” Hendricks looks him up and down. “Everything here is working for me.”

The implications are pretty clear.

James smirks, nods, and saunters off the set. He is perfectly composed, a picture of _hot and in-control_.

Inside, he is absolutely panicking.

Admittedly, James is an incorrigible flirt.

It’s a bad habit of his, and it’s only flourished with age. The problem therein is, he doesn’t do guys. He’s got this rule, right, and it’s _look but don’t touch_. He can appreciate an attractive man, the same way he fawns over a glossy men’s magazine or a nice arrangement of combs. He can make subtle innuendo, and indicate he’s up for a good time.

But that’s where it ends.

It’s possible he’s given Hendricks hints that, uh, aren’t going to come to fruition. Which. Maybe wasn’t the best move, toying with the director of the show that pays his rent.

Trying his damndest not to give into his impending freak out, James hightails it into his trailer, where he orders a town car with trembling urgency.

When his phone chirps with the alert that the sleek black sedan has arrived, he makes a speedy, discreet exit. James slides into the bench seat, into the cage of tinted windows, and breathes a sigh of relief.

Crisis averted.

* * *

It’s not that James has a problem with gay guys. He knows his fair share, because, like, he’s an actor. In Hollywood. He could stand on the Sunset Strip and spit in any direction, and he’d hit a dude who prefers dudes. Which is great! It’s fine!

But James isn’t gay.

He likes women. He likes soft curves, the swell of breasts. Full lips and long legs. He likes the way a girl’s waist fits between his palms, her hips blossoming out beneath them. He likes the pink, plush pull of pussy.

Even if he considers the occasional hard body, it doesn’t mean anything. Sexuality is a spectrum, and James revels in infrequent glimpses of how the other half live.

In his head, he hears Lucy Stone’s harsh laughter. Feels her raccoon-eyed glare piercing straight through him. Hears her say, _Sure, James_.

Mentally, he flips her off. Then he does it physically, because there’s a massive billboard for her new album hanging over the cross street leading up to his place in the Hills.

He liked Lucy. She had spunk.

And she never tolerated any of his bullshit.

He unlocks his phone in a gambit to distract himself. His inbox is bulging with unchecked emails, from ads for fitness products to a few unread scripts for future Gamut episodes – it looks like they’ll be featuring the Ozark Howler sooner rather than later. James flicks through the messages mindlessly, and then turns to his texts.

A few party invites, most of which he ignores. He’s not in the mood to club tonight.

A nearly unintelligible message from Carlos, which is fairly standard these days. He’s excited to be a new dad, but he’s also frazzled and experiencing a fairly intense terror spiral, which. Fair. James thinks if he found out he was about to have a kid, there’s a pretty good chance he’d book a one-way ticket to Timbuktu until one of his friends dragged him kicking and screaming back home. One day he’ll be responsible enough to be a father, but today is not that day. He punches back a quick thumbs up emoji and a _you got this_.

Carlos doesn’t reply, but it’s almost eight. He probably ran around the house he shares with Alexa trying to baby proof everything and then passed out on the kitchen floor, crying over a bag of Cheetos. Every time he and James facetime lately, there’s a telltale orange stain powdering Carlos’s chin.

There last new text is from Violet. _Sweets! I found you the perfect dish. Laundromat, tomorrow, 8pm. Be there with bells on!_

Mouth curving into a grin, James leans his head against the town car window. His breath fogs up the glass, obscuring the winding road of jacarandas, palms, and bougainvillea. A date, that ends in a kiss, which might turn into more than that.

It’s exactly what James needs.

* * *

There’ve been times where James wanted to do more than look.

And long past midnight, when his apartment is cloaked in deep, velvet indigo, James tosses and turns on his seven hundred dollar sheets, quietly admitting to himself that most of those times revolved around one specific person.

If there was ever a man who could bring James to his knees, or smash all his rules into smithereens, he’d be this:

So pale that sometimes James thinks he is carved from the ice in the hockey arenas they played in, as kids;

Crowned with a mop of halo-gold, blessed with calloused, long-fingered hands;

Kind, and brave, a lionheart who is stubborn as a bull, who always believes in doing what’s right;

But sweet, like a little boy when he smiles;

And when he smiles, his cheeks indent, revealing to the world those dimples of his, deeply carved.

Once upon a time, James would call that man on a night like this, when the wind whips and whistles through the canyons and crests the foothills, stirring up ghosts, nightmares, and fever dreams. He’d hear his voice, low and gentle in his ear, telling him stories about…god, anything. Any mundanity becomes a fairytale on that man’s sinful lips, and James can listen for hours.

Once upon a time, before he messed everything between them up.

It was easier when they were younger, back when James would sun himself by the Palmwoods pool and just watch the span of his broad shoulders, the ladder of his spine trembling while he cracked dumb jokes with Carlos. James would be captivated by the flash of those dimples, the twist of his mouth, staring; wanting.

Needing something he couldn’t quite put a name to.

Lucy noticed, after a while.

Worse than that, she asked the question nobody was supposed to ask.

And when James did the natural thing ( _denydenydeny_ ), all she did was scowl, more out of pity than anything else.

_Sure, James_.

Then, she laughed, a hurt, broken glass thing, and he hears it all the time, these days, woven into the tapestry of his life. Punching him when he’s down.

_Sure, James._

Tonight, when specters walk Hollywoodland – Valentino and the Manson murders and twenties starlets who gave up on their chance – the only thing haunting James’s dreams is laughter.

* * *

He hits the gym before his date, because he’s been working on landing an audition for the next Born To Die movie. It’s a longshot that he’ll get it, given his well-publicized romantic history, but he can’t imagine how much it would irritate Grace to have him on set. She said some…unkind things the last time James saw her, and he’s decided to handle it in the most mature way possible: petty revenge.

He’s just stepped out of his chic, black-tiled shower – he never washes up at the gym anymore, not after those, er, revealing paparazzi photos leaked – when Carlos calls.

“I can’t do it, James, I can’t do it, oh god-“

“Buddy, calm down!” James drags a hand across his fogged up mirror, marring the perfect circle of cloudy silver. “You’re gonna do fine. Better than fine. That kid’s going to be lucky to have you.”

“I- no, what? I’m not talking about the baby! You think I can’t handle the baby? Shit, what if I can’t handle the baby?” James can actually feel his existential dread growing larger by the second.

“Calm down. You can totally handle the baby. But what can’t you do?”

“Gardening!” Carlos exclaims, his voice choked with emotion. “Alexa has these roses and I think- I think- I think I murdered them!”

Well. They were beautiful roses – James saw them in person little over a month back, at Carlos’s baby shower. He only stopped in at the tail end of the thing, in part because his horrible ennui surrounding the breakup with Grace made it hard to deal with like, people. And in part because he’s a great, big coward who will do anything to avoid conflict.

By the time he showed up a certain blond head was already in a Lyft, rattling his merry way back towards SFO.

James spent the rest of the night with Carlos, drinking craft beer and getting increasingly weepy that one of his best buddies was going to be a dad. Every time Carlos brought up their other best buddy (the one who actually scrapes past six feet), James tactfully changed the subject to these cannibals that eat babies who were being featured on Ghoul Gamut.

Not his best idea. Carlos nearly had a panic attack about cannibals and baby thieves, but James was _desperate_ , and it’s not like the cannibals are lurking on the Embarcadero.

Which is neither here nor there now, with Carlos wailing about garden shears over the phone and James dripping water all over his bath mat. He knows fuck all about gardening, so he spends a solid five minutes allowing Carlos to wax melancholy about dirt and roses and shears and thorns and tearing Alexa’s favorite pair of gloves, all while artfully arranging his hair. Finally, he goes, “Hey, I have a date tonight. Do you need me to cancel and fly up there? I can catch a flight, take you to, uh. Wherever the hell they sell rose bushes. We can replace them. She’ll never notice.”

Carlos sniffles a little, clearly touched that James is willing to come to San Francisco and gaslight his superspy wife. Hashtag friendship, and all that.

“Appreciate the offer, man, but no way. Don’t ruin your date.” He perks up. “Is she hot?”

“I have no idea.” James fiddles with his bangs, trying to get them to lay just right. “I hope so!”

“Uh. Seems like information you should know.”

James chuckles, shucking off his towel and striding into his bedroom, where the outfit he’s chosen is laying out, ironed and spotless. “I used a matchmaking service. Remember Violet?”

“Nope.”

“She was the one I met at that party.”

“Still no.”

“I dated her sister first?”

“James, no offense, but you’ve dated half of LA county.”

Can’t argue with that. James concedes the point, and continues, “ _Anyway_ , she set this up.”

“You…let your ex-girlfriend set up a blind date?” Carlos whistles. “Ballsy.”

“Vi and I were never really…” James grimaces down at his neatly pressed clothes. Carlos has a point. “Honestly, I never thought of it that way. D’you thinks she sabotaged the date?”

“Noooo. Of course not!” Carlos says, because he enjoys believing the best in people. He’s nice like that. 

James worries at his bottom lip and considers his outfit. Maybe he should skip the date. Maybe this is all some scheme of Violet’s to get back at him for…what, exactly? She’s the one who ended their ill-advised, ephemeral relationship.

“It’ll be fine,” he decides.

“Yes, it will be,” Carlos agrees, and now he’s the one reassuring James – this call has gone on entirely too long.

“I’ve got to run. Let me know what happens with the roses.”

Abruptly mournful, Carlos says, “Do you think she’d like a bouquet?”

* * *

The hostess at the vibrantly colored cottage ushers James to the rear of the restaurant, where a sturdy wooden table with a reddish tint squats behind velvet curtains.

He’s been to the Laundromat before, because he gets a kick out of fine dining, but he’s never gotten the VIP treatment here. He can feel the other patrons’ gazes trailing him, wondering what manner of celebrity he might be.

Which is good. James never gets enough of being the center of attention. 

He scoots into one of the stiff, brocade-backed chairs. It’s a deep teal that reminds him of the ocean at sunrise. It reminds him he hasn’t been surfing for a while, and he closes his eyes.

He imagines he can hear the waves just outside the restaurant, the Pacific’s soothing call.

It grounds him.

It convinces him he’s going to rock this date.

Then James opens his eyes and starts fingering the chair’s material, which appears shiny and lush, but he finds it’s too scratchy for his liking.

That breaks the whole ocean illusion for him, and the jitters return as gently and relentlessly as the tide.

Next, he plays with the menu – printed on thick, creamy pages folded between leather, and then with a small bud vase on the table. It boasts a single white rose, with soft, dewy petals.

James plucks it from its housing, and tucks the vase in a corner nook, hoping the impromptu gift will give him a romantic edge.

He’s early, and he’s beginning to regret it.

James doesn’t get nervous, exactly. But he does get antsy.

He twirls the rose back and forth between his fingers, wondering if Carlos has figured out what to do with Alexa’s bushes. He almost wishes he had gone up, taken a puddle jumper from LAX and was sitting in Carlos and Alexa’s colorful, cluttered living room, trying to decode the Cyrillic alphabet on one of the many knickknacks Alexa has picked up in her covert travels.

Carlos got really lucky with her. She’s hot, _and_ a complete badass. James thought he found that with Grace, but…

He has poor taste in women. Everyone always says so.

It’s not that the women he picks are crazy, or toxic, or otherwise flawed. They’re usually smart. Talented. Beautiful. Great in bed.

The bad seed in the equation is always _James_.

He’s the one who is always, always outmatched. He gets insecure, clingy. He picks fights and flirts with other girls. He pushes each and every smart, talented, beautiful person away and then blames them for it, every time.

Even Grace.

A great cloak of melancholy weighs upon James’s broad shoulders.

He liked Grace, is the thing. He misses her, a bit. She made him laugh.

He misses…other people, too.

Like Logan. It’s been a while, since he reached out to Logan. James keeps his thoughts there, firmly on _Logan_ , and his ever present scents of dog dander and aloe animal shampoo, decidedly avoiding any other topics. He fiddles the rose to and fro, mentally tapping out a text to the only long lost best friend he’ll acknowledge, when.

When, he sees shoes – scuffed, but polished – approach the table.

When he lifts his head.

When, quite elegantly, James chokes on his own spit.

Kendall is here. Right in front of him, like James called him up from a dream. He’s here, looking better than he has any right to, standing right in front of James’s table.

And James can’t handle any part of him, not the halo of his old gold hair, or the sleek, tight pants (too tight) he’s matched with a green-on-green-on-green button down (sage-on-moss-on-forest green, and fuck it all if the colors don’t highlight Kendall’s eerie, frost green eyes).

He can’t even handle the way Kendall is ogling him, like he never expected to find James _here_ , of all places. He’s only got room for a single emotion, and he lets it billow up inside, this fiery heat that pinks his cheeks and the skin of his neck. “What, are you stalking me?”

The shock melts off of Kendall’s face. “ _Excuse_ me?”

James recognizes that bitchy tone, once upon a time reserved for rival hockey captains or uppity record producers. He can feel himself rising to the challenge in it, even though he’s the one who started off on the offense. “You heard me. I’m waiting for a very lucky lady, so if you don’t mind. _Shoo_.”

Kendall’s mouth gapes open, briefly, exposing a feral flash of teeth before he snaps it shut. James thinks he might snap, tell him to _stop being a dick_. He’ll march back to his own table and spend the rest of the night sulking over his caviar.

Except that’s not how it goes. Resolution steels Kendall’s expression, and he slides into the booth across from James.

Panicked, James demands, “What are you doing?”

Kendall folds his hands on the table in front of him, and arches a single eyebrow. “Hi, lover.”

James actually short circuits, for a second. Blanking out, he crushes the rose in his hand, and there goes that romantic gesture.

“Not funny,” he retorts, his furious blush gaining heat.

“Not trying to be.” Kendall props open the menu. His long fingers splay across the leather of the cover, blunt nails edging gilt lettering. “So, what’s good here?”

Increasingly irate, James hisses. “Seriously, dude. You need to leave.”

Over the menu, Kendall gives him a quizzical look. “Why? Does the food suck?”

“I have a date!”

Kendall nods. “Yeah. Me.”

“What?”

“I’m your lady.” He gives James a winning smile, not even trying to force it. “You’re not exactly what I ordered, either.”

“Nothing you’re saying makes any sense.”

Sagely, Kendall replies, “You never did pay attention in school.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“English, James. Words. Coming out of my mouth.” Kendall points to his lips, and James decidedly does not look at them. That’s a place he doesn’t need to go. “I’m your date.”

Aware Kendall is doing this to torture him, James makes a frustrated noise. “I understand what you’re saying, I just don’t _understand_ what you’re saying.”

A dark-suited waiter arrives, inquiring whether they’d like sparkling or still. Kendall assures him that tap is fine with an ease that belies all the years behind him, the fame that’s slowly familiarized them both with fine dining. James frowns at the waiter’s retreating back. “I like it when the water’s fizzy.”

Kendall’s mouth tugs up at the corners, the ghost of fondness. “Deal with it. And look, you hired a matchmaker-“

“How do you know about that?” James demands, outraged. Violet’s _supposed_ to have a confidentiality agreement, but it’s Hollywood. People talk.

Kendall watches him sputter, drawing it out a bit before he takes pity on him. “I hired her too.”

That’s not what James is expecting. “Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“I hear you on the radio every five goddamn minutes.” James says it without bitterness, even though there was a time, a few years back, that he thought Kendall’s record deal would be the straw that broke their backs. Earnest, he continues, “You could have anyone you want.”

Kendall lowers his gaze, fiddles with the menu. He doesn’t contradict James, and he doesn’t say any of the things James is scared will slip out, either. “You never answered me. Is the beef wellington worthwhile?”

In one long, smooth motion, James reaches across the table and tips the menu from Kendall’s hand. “You hired Violet.”

“I thought we covered that.”

“She set you up…with me?”

“Apparently.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Did you piss her off?”

“Did you ask her to?” James blurts, and he regrets the question right as it leaves his mouth. He does.

But he also still thinks it might be valid. 

Kendall’s expression shutters closed, whatever amiability he’d settled into dissipating back up into the ether. Tired, he mutters, “No. I didn’t.”

His hands are slipping off the table, and thoughtless, James grabs one of Kendall’s wrists. The fabric of his shirt is softer than James expected, higher end, and the pale skin beneath is warm. Kendall makes a choked sound. “ _James_ -“

The waiter comes back. He pours their water from a crystal decanter while James and Kendall sit in sullen silence, the noise of the other diners buzzing around them. When they’re asked for their orders, Kendall rattles something off, and James echoes _what he’s having_ , without even registering what that is.

And then, after, James says, “I can’t just stay here. I’m not going to _date_ you.”

“It’s one dinner, James,” Kendall replies, icy as the Minnesota winters they left behind. Chillily, he amends, “But if you want to go, go.”

“Why aren’t you mad? This can’t be what you wanted.”

Kendall lifts his eyes, a familiar _fuck-you_ challenge in their mossy depths. “You have no idea what I want.”

James shifts awkwardly.

That’s not exactly a lie.

If you’d asked him a year ago – hell, even a few months back – he would’ve sworn up and down that there wasn’t a single thing in the universe he didn’t know about Kendall Knight. They’ve had their ups and downs, their arguments and all out brawls. But nothing has ever been cataclysmic enough to keep them apart, not for long.

Not even the band breaking up.

Not even Kendall, stealing off with James’s dream – even though that one, it came _close_.

But in the end, all it took to shatter their unshakeable foundations was the tiniest mistake. James didn’t even mean to…he couldn’t have known.

They were bedrock, and then they weren’t.

It’s funny, the things you can ruin with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm slow. The whole pandemic year is kicking my ass vis a vis writing and inspiration~


End file.
